


Love Potion

by dirkygoodness



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Fighting, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, It's about Jaskier what do u expect from me, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Singing, Slow Burn, Stupid amounts of plot for what was supposed to be a smutty oneshot, Unethical potion making, Vomiting, like a lot of tags, picks up directly after their 'break up' lol, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirkygoodness/pseuds/dirkygoodness
Summary: Jaskier is still riding low off the last time he saw Geralt, and is doing his best to avoid him. Unfortunately for him, he's kind of always been a magnet for weird shit.-------------"The unmistakable white hair and broad shoulders, eyes of golden yellow sun and face like a marble sculpture stops Jaskier's breath before it makes it to his lungs.Geralt stands, his eyes locked on the King as he offers a diplomatic smile to him. Though Jaskier can't see him fully, he knows that Geralt is wearing a form fitting dress shirt, overlain with a wool coat and tight black pants. His hair is pristine, part of it pulled back into a small ponytail while the rest falls, rolling over his shoulders and back.He looks good."--"Jaskier follows Geralt, the unspoken fact that was bound to happen the moment they saw each other in the banquet hall."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hope this helps some people thru quarantine hell. 
> 
> ive got quite a few chapters on backlog (was planning to finish the whole thing before posting but im impatient) so i'll be updating pretty regularly for a while

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where Jaskier almost dies.

All things considered, Jaskier had been to better banquets. Fairly, he didn’t actually try and make a habit out of going to them -- often Jaskier found it was more trouble than the coin it might have been worth. Tonight, though, he was being paid more than his baseline. And a  _ King  _ had invited him personally, and Jaskier wasn’t about to refuse something like that. 

But still, the banquet was subpar. There were hardly any people there, for starters. The food had barely been touched -- which Jaskier took as a sign not to try and eat anything -- and the wine tasted like bathwater. Somehow, despite this, the guests were managing to be egregiously loud; their voices echoed, bouncing around the room’s massive ceiling like he’d shouted something down the side of a cliff. 

Though he wasn’t paying much attention to it, Jaskier occasionally got half sentences and comments filtering into his ears from some of the guests. Most of their words were trivial -- about some girl, the quality of the food, the name of a dog or a horse or some other working animal. Occasionally he’d get a hint of a little more serious conversation, the banquet guests speaking of someone’s death or marriage, or both. 

With a sigh, Jaskier lets his weight fall heavy against the wall at his back, gripping the cup of watery wine just the littlest bit tighter. To say he was bored would be… a vast understatement. He’d hoped coming to this, getting paid and being around a lot of people (which he was wrong about, there couldn’t be more than fifty guests here in a hall meant for a thousand) would help to quell that. Instead, it’s managing to make it  _ worse.  _ Jaskier hasn’t been able to get rid of this persistent boredom for months now, not since he’d parted ways with -- 

He shakes his head violently, his hair falling into his eyes as he does so. Thinking about that was just going to make him upset, and he’d been functioning just fine on denial up until now. Jaskier didn’t need to unnecessarily bother himself with needless memories and flashbacks. Words that cut deeper than any blade and the feeling of shameful heat blooming in his stomach. No. Jaskier was happily resigned to live his new life  _ without  _ thinking about it. About him. 

So he’d been bored. Inspiration hadn’t struck him in a long time, and he’d been aimlessly wandering looking for something to write a new song about to get some food on the table. It had been a mere stroke of luck that the King, who’s name Jaskier doesn’t recall -- that’s probably not a good thing since the man’s his paycheck -- had actually been a  _ fan  _ of Jaskier’s work. 

Apparently he’d heard Jaskier sing a while back at some other banquet or wedding or something of the like, and when he’d heard Jaskier was in town just  _ had  _ to invite him to sing at his own. It was comforting to know that Jaskier could still take care of himself on his own. A boost of confidence to his newfound independence. 

Jaskier lazily scans the crowd, raising his cup to his lips. From where he's standing, Jaskier can keep his eyes on the vast majority of the guests, but he himself is barely visible in the shadows of the lit torch above him. Normally he's a social butterfly, a 'chatterbox' as some have called him. But the thought of trying to mingle, to perform before he needs to is turning his stomach. 

And it would be performing, if he went out into the throng of people and tried to speak with them. He'd have to put on a nice, friendly voice and choose his words to better please them. He felt quite like an old man, grumbling about the nobles above him. 

The taste of the wine hits his tongue, making Jaskier wince, his entire body pulling inward with it. He wouldn't be drinking it after he'd first tasted it but for the fact this is the only alcohol on hand, and he doesn't want to try and withstand the night entirely sober. 

If he drinks enough, Jaskier is certain that the flavor will improve -- or he'll no longer care about it. So he girds himself and takes another mouthful of the drink, just in time for an uproar to break out on the far left corner of the dining hall.

The guests who are near crowd around something, all cheering and talking indistinctly over each other. Jaskier frowns and swallows the wine, shifting onto his toes to try and get a glimpse of what they're so excited about. Unfortunately he's too short, or they're too tall, and he can see nothing but a sea of rich backs and hair. 

Behind him, sitting at his throne, the King stands and walks to the crowd with a casual confidence that only born royals know. Jaskier's eyes follow him as he goes and, to his luck, the crowd parts as he begins to enter the gaggle of men until there is a straight line cut through them in his wake. This time when Jaskier shifts, craning his neck, he manages to spot the man standing a good few feet above the King. 

The unmistakable white hair and broad shoulders, eyes of golden yellow sun and face like a marble sculpture stops Jaskier's breath before it makes it to his lungs. 

Geralt stands, his eyes locked on the King as he offers a diplomatic smile to him. Though Jaskier can't see him fully, he knows that Geralt is wearing a form fitting dress shirt, overlain with a wool coat and tight black pants. His hair is pristine, part of it pulled back into a small ponytail while the rest falls, rolling over his shoulders and back. He looks  _ good.  _

He and the King speak, indistinct, but it's not as if Jaskier is listening anyway. He's too busy trying to remember the importance of breathing to even try. His throat feels filled with honey, thick and useless. He's holding his cup far too tightly, his fingers turning white from the force of it, but. Jaskier can't take his eyes off him. It's been far,  _ far  _ too long since they'd seen each other. 

Jaskier had begun to worry he might not remember what Geralt even looked like, but now as he sees him standing only a yard or so away Jaskier knows that that's silly. The image of him in Jaskier's mind is as vivid as the real thing, like he was plucked from his memory for his benefit alone. 

Geralt's eyes lift and Jaskier gasps despite himself, mouth falling open. Geralt's brow furrows for a fraction of a second, as he focuses his eyes on Jaskier. But then they shoot up, his eyes widening on surprise, a look Jaskier had almost never gotten the chance to see before. Neither of them move, unable to look away from each other. 

It breaks only when the King slaps Geralt on the arm in a typical masculine fashion, because that's not old hat by now. Jaskier dips his eyes away as soon as Geralt is momentarily distracted, and he quickly flees to the nearest wine bowl despite his cup being nearly full yet. As soon as he makes it there he slams his cup down, hand retreating and shaking as he rests against the table. Jaskier breathes out, breath shaking like the rest of him, his feet scuffing the pristine floors from the speed he pulls to a stop. 

"Okay, okay, okay, okay," He says, tries to calm himself. "It's okay." 

_ It's not okay. _

"What the  _ fuck  _ is he doing here?!" Jaskier spits, voice a hushed whisper as he cranes his neck to check behind him. 

Thankfully Geralt is being whisked away by the King and doesn't seem interested in following after him. Jaskier chastises himself; why  _ would  _ he follow him? Geralt had made his feelings perfectly clear already, and it was just a particularly bad round of luck that they've met again. Jaskier has been perfectly content avoiding Geralt for the rest of his life. It wasn't like he'd  _ planned  _ on being at the same party Geralt decided to go to by himself for probably the first time in his life. 

Despite himself, and the ever looming reminder that  _ they're not friends  _ over Jaskier's head, he can't seem to keep his eyes off Geralt long. He makes like he's filling his cup, but all the while his eyes are trailing after Geralt. He watches as Geralt walks with the King to his throne, the way he can see Geralt physically brace himself before he smiles at the man. 

It's so typical for him, to act like it's going to kill him to be diplomatic, or charismatic, or  _ polite.  _ To be fair, on occasion, though Jaskier would deny it if asked, Geralt could be remarkably charismatic. He had a habit of just  _ oozing  _ it off him in certain situations -- and that face and body couldn't hurt, either. 

Jaskier shakes his head, turning back to glance forlorn down at the cup, still full, in his hand. Geralt just had the uncanny ability to make friends, despite declaring himself unneding of them. Everywhere they went, even if Geralt was a self--inflated dick the entire time people still flocked to him like ducks to bread. It had been what drew Jaskier in. 

He'd heard of him before, of course, how couldn't he? He was always looking for inspiration and Geralt's story -- albeit incomplete -- was remarkably so. So meeting him? It was like a god send. Everything about him oozed stories, and roads tracked, the good and the bad and,  _ oh,  _ how Jaskier had  _ ached  _ to be a part of just  _ one.  _

He takes one second to consider what he's about to do before he downs the wine in one go, refills his cup, and takes another large drink from it. He doesn't manage to finish off the second cup, but that's alright. Though the wine is watery he's had enough by now that, by the time he sets his cup down again, there's the faintest sensation of drunkenness creeping up on him. He only manages to brace himself on the table, fully planning on finishing what he'd started, when someone calls his name behind him. 

"Jaskier, my dear boy," The King -- oh  _ gods  _ when had he gotten there? -- shouts, merely a foot behind him from the sound of it. "I'd like to introduce you to someone."

Jaskier knows, without even having to look, who the King is trying to introduce him to. He clutches his wine like a lifeline and hisses, "Bollocks," before turning around slowly. 

As suspected Geralt stands beside the King and he has at least the decency to appear mildly uncomfortable. Jaskier can't help the scowl that dons his features, anger rising to meet and drown the mounting pain. He tips his cup to them as a greeting, but doesn't say anything else.

The King though is very chatty, and quickly picks up the slack. "This here is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!"

"Oh," Jaskier says, too upset and tipsy to stop himself. "I know."

"Have you met?" The King --  _ what  _ was  _ his name?  _ \-- asks. 

Jaskier takes a drink of his wine, coming up for air with a gasp before speaking. "I'm passingly familiar." It's pretty, and childish, but right now it feels like a great sword blow to distance himself from Geralt. Even despite the fact that Geralt only manages to wipe his face void of emotion as he speaks the words.

The King nearly looks drunk with excitement. "Splendid! Perhaps you know a song or two about him? Would you sing one for us?" 

"Of course," Jaskier's answer is too quick, and if he'd thought about it he probably would have lied and said no. He hasn't sung about Geralt since they parted ways. But he says it anyway, and pushes between the two of them, shoving his cup forcefully into Geralt's hands just to spite him. 

He feels bad for it the moment he gets to the stage. It's a shoddy little thing, no more than about a foot raised from the ground, only big enough for four people, maybe five if they squeeze together. Tonight though it's only Jaskier and his lute, which he pulls smoothly from where it rests on his back with practiced ease; his fingers finding the proper strings just the same, landing on the start of  _ Toss a Coin to Your Witcher _ without his say so. 

Jaskier shifts, goes to re-situate himself but it's too late. There's already a crowd gathering, the King and Geralt at the front of it. Geralt, who's looking anywhere but at him. He opens his mouth and tries to get the first lines of the song out, but he just. 

Can't. 

His chest hurts, and the lyrics won't stay in his head. It feels like singing a joyful ballad after your loved one has just passed away. It feels like, if Jaskier sings it, he's betraying the hurt he feels. Like he's  _ admitting  _ that Geralt was right, or that what he did was okay.

Jaskier sings  _ Her Sweet Kiss _ instead. 

The entire time he does, he's blocking out everything else except for Geralt. Like he's trying to tell him something -- something the songs lyrics should convey. Geralt leaves before he gets to that part, though, and Jaskier is left with nothing but mildly bored, drunk guests to stare at instead.

Jaskier finishes the song, despite the uninterest he’s getting back, and immediately flees the stage, going in the opposite direction that Geralt had. He doesn’t want to run into him again tonight, and thusly does everything he can to avoid him. It’s a little difficult, considering the King keeps trying to come over to talk to Jaskier but Geralt is following him around like a lost puppy, or like he’s the King’s shadow. He has to dance around the drunk guests, slipping between two people knowing full well that the other two can’t follow him there. 

He manages to make it a few hours like that, without being forced into another situation he wants to avoid, before Jaskier decides maybe it’s better if he just leaves. He won’t have to try and dodge Geralt all night if he’s not even  _ there  _ anymore. And at any rate, no one seemed particularly interested in his singing, which is the entire reason he  _ came  _ in the first place. He hasn’t been paid yet, but it’s finally to that point where staying and earning his coin is very much  _ not  _ worth the trouble.

Jaskier slips along the left wall, careful to maneuver around men who’ve drunk their fill and passed out on the floor. Despite that he gets to the door in record time, and from the looks of it without anyone having spotted him. He doesn’t wait to give a glance around the room, or to say goodbye to anyone. 

Jaskier simply slips out the still open doors to the banquet hall and heads in the direction he entered. Breathes a sigh of relief once he’s far enough away from the still loud guests that he can barely hear them. What Jaskier needs right now is a good long rest to prepare him for the inevitable upset he’s going to have in the morning when he thinks back on this night. He’s not exactly looking forward to it, but it’s better than staying here. 

“My dear boy!” Comes the familiar voice of the King behind Jaskier, and he only just manages to suppress his groan as he instinctively comes to a halt. 

He doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t have to; the King sidles up next to him with a foolish grin on his face and a warm hand on Jaskier’s back that makes him pull away, uncomfortable. He doesn’t seem to notice that, though.

“Where do you think you were heading off to at this hour?”

“Well,” Jaskier smiles, following as the King urges him onwards with the hand still at his back. “It is quite late now, and no one seemed particularly interested in any more music, so I figured I could slip out now without bothering anyone.”

“Oh, but the night has only just begun!” The King declares, but despite his words he’s taking Jaskier farther away from the banquet hall. “Can I not tempt you to stay for an hour longer, at most?”

Jaskier shrugs. “I really must be going, my lord. I have places to be tomorrow, and all that, you see.” A lie, but something about the situation is beginning to make the hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck stand on end. 

Similar to the feeling of looking into a dead silent, pitch black room that you must go into. Again the King doesn’t seem to notice his mood, and slips his hand up to Jaskier’s shoulder, patting gently, almost reassuring. 

“Ah, that’s alright. I won’t keep you but for one song more.” Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but the King cuts him off by lifting a finger and raising his eyebrows. “Ah--ah!  _ One  _ more song!” 

Jaskier frowns, his fingers tightening around his lute strap. He feels like he should leave. 

Instead he says, “One song couldn’t… hurt.” 

The King’s laugh is boisterous, and he leads Jaskier down a winding set of hallways. He tries to remember them, the pictures and the placements of the torches, but everything is nearly identical and at the pace the King is setting it’s impossible for him to keep track. Not to mention the entire time the King is chatting him up, spewing small talk like a leaking barrel or ship. 

He offers the King an occasional nod, a set of  _ ‘hmms’  _ to keep him at ease. It takes a little while, but finally the King stops his rambling with a loud ‘ah--ha!’ and points to a small door at the very end of a corridor, the only door in the hallway. It lays flush against the back, ending wall. 

“Here it is, my private quarters. I’d like you to give me and my wife a performance. Something romantic. She’s been awful lonely stuck up in here. She’s got swollen feet, pregnant.” The King explains, or.  _ Over  _ explains, as he keeps ushering Jaskier closer to the door. 

And, with each step, Jaskier realizes that the door does  _ not  _ look like the private quarters of a King. It’s a small door, heavily worn with minor, rusted metal decals to hold it in place. The handle is a simple latch, not even a proper door knob, and there only sits one torch, barely lit, next to it. If Jaskier had to guess, he’d say it looked more like a door to the outside or the ramparts than anything like a King’s quarters. 

Not to mention, there were no guards. 

Jaskier shifts, pushes back against where the King is still holding onto his shoulder. “I -- I’m not sure about this, m’lord, are you sure this is the right place? It doesn’t look--”

“Nonsense, this is my own castle! Don’t you think I know my way around it?” He squeezes Jaskier’s shoulder, hard, and pushes him forwards. 

“Yes, but I’d be more comfortable somewhere else. I’m uh… afraid of the dark, and it’s not really lit up back here, so if we could just--” Jaskier tries to shrink out of the King’s hold, ducking down just enough that he feels the pressure begin to ease.

Like a snake, though, the King snaps his hand back down and digs his fingernails into Jaskier’s shoulder so hard he hisses in pain. With the hand the King, in a startling show of strength, wrenches Jaskier to the side and shoves him backwards. He stumbles over his own feet at the loss of balance, and tips, but before he collides with the ground his back hits the wall behind him to his right. 

The impact startles him, all the air knocking out of his chest in a wheezing sound that leaves him dizzy. Jaskier doesn’t even get a chance to try and get his bearings before the King is suddenly  _ right  _ there in his space, and Jaskier can  _ feel  _ the tip of a blade pressing into his stomach. 

“My, my,” The King says, “You are a feisty little thing. No one else has noticed the trap so plainly laid, save for you.” 

Jaskier, the fool that he is, tipsy, says, “I did get A’s in school.” 

The knife digs deeper, and Jaskier can feel it break the skin. He squeaks, trying to pull back away from the pressure of it, but he’s stopped by the wall and the arm that the King raises to his throat, his forearm pressing his throat back until his head is flush with the stone behind him. 

“Even better,” The King licks his lips and Jaskier closes his eyes, whimpering as the knife digs farther into his stomach and he can feel blood drip down between his clothes. “Now, be a dear and stay quiet while I gut you, yes?” 

“N--” The blade digs, with  _ force  _ this time, and Jaskier screams.  _ “Nonononono!  _ Stop, plea--”

There’s a flash, a blur of motion that Jaskier only partly sees, opening his eyes for a fraction of a second before he closes them once more. There is a sound of impact, a grunt, something falling on the floor. 

Jaskier doesn’t care, he’s too busy pressing a hand to his wound and crumpling to the floor himself, trying to remind himself how to breathe, to figure out if he’s even  _ alive  _ anymore. 

It’s quiet, and he doesn’t feel anyone trying to grab for him, so after a good,  _ long  _ moment Jaskier cracks an eye open, peeking up above his forearm that he’s wrapped protectively around his face, resting atop his knees that he’s pulled up to his chest. He’s met with his entire vision being encompassed by Geralt, who’s squatting before him, his own forearms resting on his thighs. 

His expression might be considered one of concern, and the line of his body looks like he wants to reach out and touch Jaskier’s shoulder, or that he had gone to, but stopped himself. Jaskier swallows thick, his heart painfully loud in his ears, bouncing off the inside of his chest.

“Am I dead?” Jaskier questions softly, unable to say anything else. Part of him still isn’t actually sure if he isn’t.

Geralt, though, is. “No. I don’t think so.” 

Jaskier nods, sucking in a thick, heavy breath. He pears around, looks to the left, to the right. The King lays on the floor in a crumpled little pile of a man, all limbs strewn about, his head cocked in an uncomfortable looking position. The knife -- a hunting knife, Jaskier thinks, he’s pretty sure -- is still in his hand. 

“Is  _ he  _ dead?” He asks a little more forceful, the question not sure if it’s trying to be an accusation or fear. Geralt shifts on his feet, turning his entire body to look down at where the King lays, his eyebrows making a run for his hairline. 

“Unconscious.” Geralt says, then he turns back to look at Jaskier and adds, “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Is Jaskier’s instant response, and, oh, wow,  _ really?  _

After all the anger and feelings he has the first thing he manages to say, when Geralt apologizes to him (albeit for something unrelated) he instantly forgives him. Of course he does, because Jaskier has no backbone. Ugh. He internally smacks himself. 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jaskier continues, and he unballs himself and pulls a hand off his stomach to look at it. “See, it’s not eve -- oh  _ gods,  _ that’s uh. That’s a lot of blood? Am I -- I think I’m going to vomit.” 

His hand is  _ soaked  _ in blood, his entire palm a dark red that is sickening to look at. Geralt, the bastard, just casually leans forwards onto one knee and grabs Jaskier’s wrist in his hand. 

If Jaskier wasn’t contemplating his imminent demise, he might have had a moment to stop and think about how it felt. Instead he just panics and tries to stop Geralt’s other hand from reaching for his wound, slapping his hand away and wrapping his arm around his stomach again. 

“Don’t--”

“Jaskier--”

“--It’s fine, don’t--”   
  
_ “--Jaskier!”  _

Jaskier closes his mouth with an audible pop, looking up at Geralt’s stern face sheepishly. Geralt waits a moment, before tipping his head and speaking.

“If you keep your hand like that, I can’t look at the wound. I need to look at the wound to see if you need stitches.” He explains it like Jaskier is a  _ child,  _ and he almost has the energy to be angry about that -- but the fear is still creeping up on him and Jaskier can feel blood seeping into his shirt sleeve so he just nods and pulls his arm away. 

Geralt gives him a moment, to prepare or what Jaskier isn’t sure, before he reaches out again and gets a hold of the bottom of Jaskier’s  _ very  _ expensive shirt. That he’d splurged on because he knew he was getting a large amount of coin from this job. From the King. Who tried to kill him.

“My singing wasn’t  _ that  _ bad.” Jaskier says, unable to look down at where Geralt is looking, his shirt being dragged up so the damage is more visible. “I’m probably not getting paid for this.” 

Geralt grunts in affirmation, or disagreement? It’s always a mixed bag, trying to decipher Geralt’s grunts, but Jaskier had always tried to veer more towards what he  _ wanted  _ Geralt to say. Probably some... personal bias, if he’s honest with himself. Either way, Geralt grunts, and shifts to pull Jaskier’s shirt a little higher. He stares at Jaskier for a long, tense moment, before he finally pulls away, dropping Jaskier’s shirt and wrist in the same motion. 

“What’s the prognosis, doctor?” Jaskier asks, unable to stop himself, and he lets out a nervous laugh when Geralt shoots him a sideways glance; Geralt is turned, reaching into his back pocket looking for something. “Sorry, I joke when I get nervous.” 

“I’m aware.” Geralt responds gruffly, and Jaskier’s face heats, turning red as he laughs again. 

Thankfully he doesn’t have to wallow in his embarrassment long, as Geralt turns back around holding whatever it was he was looking for. As it turns out, it’s a pad of bandaging, fouled up into a little square. He lifts Jaskier’s shirt once more, unceremonious, and without further ado pushes the bandage hard against Jaskier’s stomach. 

“Fuck!” Jaskier hisses, twitching from the reaction of the pain, his leg jerking out at just barely managing to not hit Geralt in the shin. 

Geralt has his eyes trained on what he’s doing, and he holds the bandage there for a moment before grabbing Jaskier’s wrist again -- and this time Jaskier  _ does  _ log the memory of how it feels away for later -- and bringing it to swap places with his own hand. Jaskier presses against himself, more careful this time, able to moderate how much he can push and how much pain he can take at once. It feels far less painful than what Geralt was doing, and this way his wrist doesn’t ache from the angle. 

With a gust of air, Geralt stands, taking two strides over to where the King lays. He kneels again, reaching down to feel in his pockets, looking for what Jaskier doesn’t know. He stands, using the wall behind himself as a brace, grunting as his stomach twinges painfully with the movement. 

It burns, like he’d been scalded instead of  _ stabbed _ , but then again Jaskier hasn’t had all that much experience with getting stabbed in the stomach before, it’s a new experience for him. Careful, trying not to jostle himself too much on his still wobbly legs, Jaskier circles around to the other side of Geralt until he stands next to the King’s outstretched arm. 

Geralt keeps searching his pants and pockets, patting him down as he does. Jaskier, though, doesn’t notice much beyond the sound of it. His eyes are trained on the knife. It’s a large, jagged thing, with ornate markings along the handle. There’s a large green jewel at the top, embedded into the metal crown the blade is topped with. 

The blade itself is long, and jagged, almost something he’d expect a street ruffian to use. But it’s very fine, the metal having a near-perfect sheen to it, and Jaskier can tell from the look of it that it’s sharpened to a fine point. His blood is still on it, no more than an inch or so, but against the silver metal it looks like miles. 

Jaskier sucks in a breath, then lets out a growl and kicks the knife out of the King's limp grasp with as much force as he can. It goes flying across the hallway, smacking into the opposite wall and bouncing until it ends up flying behind Jaskier and skittering down the hall where it finally comes to a stop a few feet away from them. He breathes heavily, the effort from it having winded him again after such a wound, an ordeal. 

His hand presses harder against his stomach, and Jaskier glances over to Geralt again. He hasn’t moved from his position, and he doesn’t give any indication that he notices what Jaskier had done, even though Jaskier  _ knows  _ he has. He’s thankful for that, at least. 

It only takes another moment before Geralt finds what he’s looking for, a small golden key that he subsequently pockets. As soon as he does he stands again and moves like he’s about to leave -- but stops at the King’s feet, bending down to grab one of his ankles. Geralt makes a noise, and pulls, walking and dragging the King along with him without saying another word. 

Jaskier watches him go, as Geralt kicks the knife out of his path as he walks. He doesn’t have to say anything, neither of them do. 

Jaskier follows Geralt, the unspoken fact that was bound to happen the moment they saw each other in the banquet hall. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where Jaskier gets revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// heavy violence in this chapter

Jaskier’s pace is sluggish compared to Geralt despite the fact that he’s dragging a limp man along with him, but Jaskier had never been able to keep up with him even when he’d been in perfect health. Geralt simply was faster -- to which Jaskier assumed was a side effect of being a Witcher.

The sounds of their footsteps -- Geralt’s heavy and loud, and Jaskier’s footfall softer, his heels clicking and scraping as he limps to put little tension on his wound -- are loud, and they echo in the hall.

It doesn’t help that the King being dragged along the ground makes a loud, long… well _dragging_ sound. Jaskier keeps looking behind them, expecting someone to appear out of thin air and demand an explanation as to why they were toating the King around like a drunk.

Or maybe Jaskier was doing it because he was almost expecting the King himself to pop up and startle them, despite the fact that he was out and in Geralt’s grasp. 

He almost runs into Geralt, his attention focused on behind them as he tries to look for just that. Jaskier grunts, startled, his hand raising to press against Geralt’s back to stop himself from smacking into him. Geralt has come to a stop in the hallway, and he eyes Jaskier, brow cocked as he gives what Jaskier _thinks_ is a questioning look.

A nervous laugh and a quick retreat of his hand is Jaskier’s answer to whatever the look is intended to be, which earns him a grunt as Geralt turns away from him. They’ve come to a stop in front of two very large, ornate wooden doors, with gold filigree inlaid into the door about midway up.

The handles are large and look like they’re solid steel, and Geralt slips the golden key into the door like he knows it belongs there. Sure enough, the lock clicks and Geralt pushes it open without any trouble. 

Geralt moves inside, his arm outstretched as he holds one of the doors open. Jaskier isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth… gift Witcher? Whatever, he’s not taking it for granted so he half--jogs up beside Geralt and ducks under his arm, moving until he’s squarely in the center of the room. Geralt doesn’t even seem phased by it and just pushes the door open and pulls away, so the momentum carries it open long enough that he can drag the King inside.

He lets him drop with a heavy thud, moving towards the far left where a large bed sits, covered in red cloths and quilts. Jaskier turns in the opposite direction, pulling his lute off his back with a groan and leaving it by the door, gently propping it up against the wall so it won’t fall to the floor. He’s thankful that it doesn't seem to have been damaged during his attack.

He’d be a little more than distressed if it had been broken along with the fact he’d been stabbed. Jaskier limps slowly towards the other side of the room and plops himself in the first place he spots; a little brown wooden chair, pushed into a matching petite brown table that’s tucked against the far corner next to what he assumes is the door to the toilets, and a large wardrobe flush to the wall on the other corner. 

Jaskier is careful as he sits, but still he groans, pain biting up his side like a cat’s claws digging into him. It -- it _hurts,_ but he’s trying not to think too much about it. If it was life threatening he’s sure Geralt would have told him, and done something other than just giving him a bandage to stop the bleeding.

At least he’s pretty sure.

Jaskier glances back up, across the room to where Geralt is somehow already tying up the King. He’s strung his arms up, attached each to an individual bed post, the King’s back flush against the footboard. Geralt has even gone so far as to tie the King’s feet together. The line of Geralt’s body shifts and, without turning or stopping what he’s doing, he speaks.

“Keep the pressure on,” He commands, and Jaskier startles, instinctively doing as he’s told. 

His face scrunches up and he pulls his hand away just as quickly as he’d put it against his wound again. “I _am._ ” 

“No,” Geralt rebuffs, finishing a knot around the bed post. “You’re only putting pressure on it when I’m looking at you.” 

“I am _not!”_ Jaskier scoffs despite the fact that he knows it’s true. He frowns and looks at the floor, the wall, his mouth twisting up into what is _not_ a pout, no matter how it might look. “Besides, you’re not even looking, how would you know?” 

“I can smell the blood.” He clarified without looking up from what he was doing. Because that’s not some kind of creepy thing a murderer would say. 

“Ew,” Jaskier cringed, pulling a face -- but he does as he’s told, and presses harder against his wound, even though it hurts so bad his toes curl and his arm starts to shake.

Geralt doesn’t say anything else to him, just starts rifling through the King’s drawers and desks and things as soon as he’s finished tying him up. So Jaskier is left sitting alone at the back of the King’s bedroom, staring at Geralt’s unfairly broad shoulders and unable to figure out the right thing to say. It’s… awkward. Uncomfortable.

It feels like something should be said, something _needs_ to be said, but neither of them are willing to, or know what it is yet. Jaskier wants an apology, wants Geralt to tell him he was wrong; he doesn’t know what Geralt wants, if he wants to say anything at all. In all likelihood he just wants to sit there in unpleasant silence for the rest of the night, until he inevitably wanders off to go finish whatever it was he was doing in the first place. 

Jaskier had never been very good with silence.

“Any particular reason you hogtied him, or?” He asks because he’s unable to keep his mouth shut. "Besides him trying to gut me, of course." Jaskier winches as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it’s far too late to take them back. He’s expecting an annoyed grunt or a disinterested ‘hmm’, but neither come. Surprisingly enough, Geralt decides to actually answer him for once. 

“I need to ask him some questions.” Geralt tells him gruffly. Jaskier cocks a brow and waits impatiently for some kind of elaboration on his part. But, when it inevitably doesn’t come, he sighs heavily and pushes a hand to his forehead. 

“So you just tie up people you want to talk to, now?” Jaskier hummed wearily, his voice quieter than before.

He’s… Jaskier is tired. It’s hard for him to hold up a conversation by his bootstraps with little help from other parties on a good day, despite the fact that he talks as much as he does. And he’s been stabbed and saved by a guy who last time they saw each other told him how Jaskier was the root cause of all his suffering.

So. It didn’t exactly top his list of _good_ days. 

Geralt tosses a stack of papers haphazardly onto the bed. “I do when they’ve killed a bunch of people.” His tone is unchanging, making Jaskier nod along for a moment before the words actually register in his mind and he startles. It has Jaskier sitting up straighter, his hand dropping to his knee as he gives Geralt a stern, concerned look that he’s in no way going to see with his back to him. 

“Hold on,” Jaskier shifts until his entire body is facing Geralt. “A bunch of people? How many people has he killed?”

He’s sure he sounds strained, from the way his throat aches, but for once it’s warranted. Jaskier had just assumed the King had held some grudge against him, perhaps Jaskier had actually slept with the man's wife, or sister, or daughter -- he looked old enough for it. But the knowledge that the King had killed _before_ is. Well, it’s unnerving, to say the least of it. 

Geralt pauses his search and turns part of the way around, until Jaskier can see the side of his face. The torchlight dances across his cheeks, illuminating his eyes so they look like two embers embedded in his skull. They’re distant, like he’s thinking intently about something as he looks off into the middle distance.

All things considered it was rather dramatic for Geralt, and if Jaskier was still writing songs about him this would definitely make it into one of them. The great Geralt of Rivia looking thoughtfully into the distance as he ponders the meaning of like, or. Something like that. 

“Thirteen,” Geralt finally breaks his drawn out silence, “Though that’s only the ones that I know of.” He turns back to the current drawer he’s rifling through, tossing a paper weight out behind his shoulder. It lands on the floor with a painful sounding clink, Jaskier unable to stop himself from flinching at the noise when it hits the ground. It rolls across the floor a little ways, finally coming to a stop in front of the King’s desk. 

“You’re on a job.” Jaskier says, not a question, but a statement of fact. Geralt grunts though, like he’s answering the non-question.

He didn’t need acknowledgment, but Jaskier’s stomach sinks anyway as he gets it, as he comes to the startling realization that _some_ part of him had almost… hoped Geralt was here for _him._ Which was stupid, it was the hope of a lovestruck fool. It wasn’t realistic, wasn’t likely or even something he should dream up.

But Jaskier had managed to _hope_ for it anyway. Had managed to come up with a scenario in his head that Geralt was coming to find him, to help him, to _save him,_ to apologize. He clenches his fist and rests his other hand on the table for purchase he doesn’t need. 

He considers asking for details. Normally Jaskier would be talking nonstop trying to get Geralt to explain the situation, the gritty truths and the heroic battles. _Normally_ Jaskier would cling to every word Geralt would spare him, even if it was no more than an ‘I killed it’. But now, Jaskier feels like he can’t ask. He doesn’t have the _right_ to. Geralt’s words from before are hanging over his head like a blade ready to drop, ready to kill him. 

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

Jaskier is pulled from his thoughts with the sound of a guttural groan echoing in the room, and he jerks his head up. The King is shifting, starting to wake as he flops his head in an attempt to look up. His hands clench into fists, his feet shift against the marbled tile beneath them, and Jaskier inhales sharply. Like a spark of lightning, panic shoots through his chest and he pulls back, heels knocking on the legs of the chair, trying to get away from the King. 

“Geralt,” He warns, voice high and strained. The King lifts his head and their eyes meet, and it’s like Jaskier is looking into a deep, dark pit that he’s never going to get out of. The King’s eyes are impossibly dark and foreboding. Again, louder, more urgently he repeats himself. _“Geralt.”_

The King frowns and his mouth pulls open in confusion, just as Geralt finally hears Jaskier and loops around the side of the bed. He doesn’t seem to be noticed however, the King’s attention firmly glued to Jaskier now. With each passing second he looks at Jaskier, the urge to vomit again grows stronger in the pit of his stomach until Jaskier has to press his hand against his wound just to keep himself from doing so.

“I see you’re not dead.” Is what the King decides on saying finally, his eyes trailing up and down as he looks Jaskier over intently, like he’s trying to get a good image of him so he can paint him later. Or so he can remember what he looks like to send someone to _kill_ him. 

“And I see you’re a right bitch.” Jaskier bites out. It’s lacking any real venom, with the tremble in his body shaking his voice, making him sound like a leaf in the wind. The King just grins and laughs, unphased, pulling on his bonds to test them. Jaskier has to force his body still against the rising urge to flee. 

“Feisty, feisty, little bard,” He purrs, like he’s flirting, like he hadn’t just tried to _gut_ Jaskier in a darkened hallway of his stupidly big, maze like castle. “Come, let me out. We’ll go for round two.” 

Jaskier pales and loses the fight against himself, standing so abruptly the chair falls to the floor. His ankle knocks into it as he backs up into the wall behind him, stumbling and nearly falling, surly looking like a fool. But he can’t be bothered enough to care. There’s something about this man, about the King that just sets Jaskier on edge. He’d felt it from the moment they’d met earlier that night, but Jaskier had been able to ignore it with all those people around and a stomach full of wine.

All the times he’d been with Geralt before, seen the monsters he fights, been face to face with demons and devils and ghouls alike, Jaskier had never been this _afraid_ of them before. Every time the King looks at him Jaskier feels like there’s a hand gripping his heart, tightening and _tightening_ until it finally bursts.

Maybe it’s in part due to the fact that those other monsters never really got as far as this King had. Maybe it’s the fact that those were _monsters,_ they were born like that. This is a human of flesh and bone. And he’s laughing at the idea of another chance at killing Jaskier. 

Geralt steps forwards then, effectively blocking Jaskier’s view of the King -- and, subsequently, the King’s view of Jaskier. His breath leaves him in a gust he hadn’t known he’d been holding as his eyes trail up to the back of Geralt’s head, surprised at himself for how quickly he relaxes now that Jaskier has been reminded that Geralt is there. He’s almost gotten used to being alone again.

It’s… comforting to know someone else is there, even if he’s not friendly he’s at least on the same side. Unintentionally of course, Jaskier doesn’t think Geralt would willingly align himself with him if he could help it. Too bad Jaskier had never been a particularly bad human being and Geralt’s entire personality consisted of killing evil. 

“Oooh,” The King drawls, and Jaskier is certain he’s looking up at Geralt now with the same inviting expression he’d pulled on him. “The Witcher. That explains these fine knots, I didn’t think a scrawny little thing like him could figure out something like this on his own.” 

Jaskier’s chest puffs in indignation. He knows how to tie a knot! He may not look like much but he’d learned a _few_ things following Geralt around. Sure, he couldn’t make the exact same quality of knots as Geralt, but he could do a damn fine job if he needed to. He would have been able to keep the King bound.

If… he’d managed to keep himself from getting killed, that is. Jaskier winces at the reminder, rubbing his stomach gently. 

Geralt interrupts Jaskier’s attempt at being insulted. “Enough. I know you’ve been killing men. You’re going to tell me why, and if anyone else is involved.” 

Jaskier hears the King laugh, high and throaty, but it doesn’t sound afraid. He sounds calm and collected, actually, which just makes Jaskier that the more _angry._ He moves forwards a few steps, directly behind Geralt so the King still can’t see him but closer so he can hear them better. 

“And why should I tell you? If you haven’t noticed, I _am_ a King, and everything you’re doing now is considered treason.” 

“Except we’re not your subjects, so really at most it counts as an assassination attempt. But that’d be reaching a bit, I'd think, considering you tried to murder me. Wouldn't you agree, Geralt?" Jaskier pipes up this time, which earns him a withering look that Geralt tosses him over his shoulder. Jaskier’s mouth draws into a thin line as he double-takes for a moment, not sure if he should look at Geralt or the floor. 

He decides on the King, craning his neck to look past Geralt’s impossibly squared shoulders -- what was he, a house? -- with a sharp inhale, his eyes locking on the man again. As soon as he does most of his confidence melts out of him like a hole cut into a waterskin, and Jaskier takes a few steps closer to Geralt, instinct telling him to get directly behind him to be safe. The other part of him, the part that was paying attention to Geralt’s loaded look of warning, tries to keep himself from saying anything at all.

“Perhaps you can try and send someone after us, but I can assure you Geralt can dispatch them, er… rather efficiently, so I’m not really scared of uh… a backwater, stymphalist King who can’t even drudge up enough people for a halfway decent party.” Jaskier says, fear fueling his false bravado, words a blatant lie with the way he’s still hiding in the shadow of Geralt.

The King leans, tries to look around Geralt to get a better view of Jaskier. His smile is wolf-like. _No._ Geralt’s smile is like that of a wolf. This man’s smile is… _monstrous._ “Gods, you’re mouthy. I think I shall cut out your tongue and eat it to teach you a lesson. Can’t spout drivel if you can’t speak, hmm?” 

Jaskier jerks to the side until he’s hidden behind Geralt again, but he stumbles a little as his foot collides with the paperweight Geralt had tossed earlier. The King laughs again, and Jaskier presses his hand harder against his wound if only for the distraction of the nausea and fear that’s rising still.

Geralt grunts and takes a step closer to the man, and before Jaskier has a chance to prepare or guess what’s about to happen there’s the sound of a blow striking and the King yelps. Geralt shifts back on his heels, his hand coming down to his side in a clenched fist, and Jaskier can see blood dripping from it. 

“Tell me, or _I’ll_ cut _your_ tongue out and leave you in the woods for the wolves to find.” Geralt growls at him, and then there’s a long, tense moment of silence. Jaskier can’t see anything from where he’s standing, can’t tell if the King is breaking or if he’s still happy and unphased by Geralt’s insults. He wrings his hands together and considers looking again. 

“Very well,” The King says before he can, and Jaskier lets out a huff of air. “Yes, yes, you’re right, how very clever of you. I’ve been killing men. Had to, you see?”

“Why?” Geralt demands through barely restrained disgust. Jaskier hears the King shrug.

“Keeping myself this beautiful comes at a cost, as everything. At first I had my men kill them for me, but I’ve found when I do it myself the blood is more potent.” 

Jaskier blanches. “The blood?”

“Oh, yes, dear bard.” He raises his voice to speak to Jaskier now.

“With as uncultured as you must be, I can't be surprised you don't know -- I'm sure the Witcher here could explain it better, but I'll try. You see, the blood of virile young men is potent. Very useful in making all sorts of elixirs or tonics. And thankfully, a strong elixir against the woes of aging is one of it's many abilities. I was intending, like I do with all of them, to bathe in your blood! It’s quite pleasant, actually. Like a nice, warm bath, but thicker. And it does leave the most lovely color on the skin afterwards.”

Jaskier is going to be sick. The King was _killing_ men and _bathing_ in their blood, and if Geralt hadn’t just _happened_ to be on this job tonight Jaskier would have _been one of them._ One of his victims that would never be found or heard of again. And he didn’t care, he was amused by it, he thought it was fucking _funny_ that he was just murdering people to bathe in their _fucking_ blood!

“My man would pick out fresh blood for me, someone no one would miss. Usually grifters, but at the beginning I guess I did have to pick a few men who lived in town. And when the visitors are low, well, I have to then too don’t I?”

Jaskier bends down and picks up the paperweight.

“Honestly, I didn’t even know you were a bard! It was my Knights idea to invite you. Said you were practically invisible to the locals despite your incessant caterwauling around bars in town, and after I heard you sing earlier I was sure I had to take you out. I mean, with a voice like that, it would be a _blessing.”_

Jaskier pushes past Geralt with a strength he didn’t know he had, and bashes the King across the face with the paperweight. The initial blow ends with a sickening crunch, blood splattering across the crystal and his hand, the King’s nose breaking. But Jaskier doesn’t stop there, and swings it again.

_“Shut! The! Fuck! Up!”_ Jaskier screams, each word leaving his mouth on downstrike after downstrike. He reels back, holding the paperweight with both hands above his head to bring it down with force.

He’s stopped as a large set of hands encircle each of his wrists, holding him still as he tries to bring it down again. Geralt is suddenly there, next to him, his back pressed against Jaskier’s side as he keeps his hands firmly in the air. Jaskier wheezes, breath shaking as he glances up at Geralt, wild eyed and disheveled, blood plastered across his face.

The look on Geralt’s face is soft -- far softer than Jaskier had ever seen him before -- and he gently strokes his thumb over Jaskier’s wrist, like he’s trying to distract him. Or bring him back into himself. 

“That’s enough,” He says, and it’s like a bucket of cold water is dumped over Jaskier’s head. 

_Oh Gods, what has he done?_

Jaskier gasps, eyes blowing wide as he drops the paperweight. It lands behind him loudly, perhaps it shatters, he can’t tell. Jaskier is looking down on the limp body of the King, his face swollen and covered in blood, nose knocked to the side and split open on the bridge.

Viscera, snot and spit drip, thick and viscus, from his nose and mouth. Jaskier thinks he sees a tooth hanging out on the King's lip. It’s gory, it’s disgusting.

Jaskier did this.

“Oh Gods,” Jaskier gasps, stumbles back the second Geralt has released him. He raises a shaking, bloodied hand to his mouth. “Oh _Gods,_ is he--? Did _I--?_ Did I kill him?” 

Geralt doesn’t answer him at first, just keeps giving him that _look_ and Jaskier can’t fucking _breathe._ Can’t take more than short, sharp breaths in quick succession. Somewhere in the back of his mind something tells him he’s hyperventilating, but it’s. It’s hard to _focus_ when his vision is blurring. He'd almost just killed a man in a rage. Had he killed a man--? Oh _Gods--_

“No,” Geralt says, from where he’s kneeling down beside the King, his hand at his neck. “No, you just rung his bell.’

“Rung -- _rung his bell?!_ Geralt, look at him!” Jaskier waves in their general direction, “He looks like a slab of raw meat! He looks like a dead man! What the _fuck!”_

Jaskier’s back collides with the wall again, and he curls up on himself, bent halfway over so his face is close to his knees. He’d never done something like that before.

What on -- _why_ had he done that? Was he a monster too? Was he some kind of horrible person now? Had he _always_ been like this? The man had been tied up and yet Jaskier had _bashed his skull in._ He’d bashed in a helpless man’s face without a second's hesitation!

_What the fuck!_

Geralt grabs his shoulders and physically lifts Jaskier up until he’s standing straight again, face to face with Geralt. 

“Jaskier,” He says, his voice calm in a way that makes Jaskier want to listen. “He’s going to be fine. I’ve seen worse. You didn’t kill him.” 

“But I could have. I -- I _would_ have if you hadn’t stopped me.” Jaskier whispers, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“But I _stopped_ you.” Geralt reasons, sounds so reasonable. And yet. 

_And yet._

“You don’t get it, I’m not like you! I don’t want to kill people! I don’t do this! I don’t get angry and bash a man's skull in!” Jaskier shouts, thrashing around in Geralt’s grip to try and wiggle out. Geralt doesn’t even seem phased. Which just makes Jaskier fight _harder._

Geralt shakes him like a rag doll, like he weighs nothing, Jaskier’s head flopping around like he’s drunk or half asleep. He makes an aborted confused, startled noise, his hands coming up to grip Geralt’s elbows to try and stabilize himself or to stop him. Geralt only stops shaking him after another moment, his expression stony as he levels Jaskier with a look. 

“You weren’t angry, Jaskier.” Geralt says, and Jaskier scoffs because he’s _pretty damn sure_ he was. “You were scared.”

Jaskier freezes and blinks stupidly. 

“You were scared of him and you lashed out to protect yourself. It happens.” 

Jaskier shakes his head, despite the fact that he’s already slumping in Geralt’s hold, defeated. “It was sick.” He mutters in a hushed voice, his eyes falling to the floor between them. 

“It was human.” Geralt’s voice dips soft, far softer than Jaskier has ever heard it, and when he looks up Geralt’s head is tipped to the side and he’s offering Jaskier a small smile that wrinkles his eyes. 

Jaskier swallows hard and tries to remind himself that Geralt hates him. Tries to bring up the moment on the mountain, tries not to let his emotions swell on false hope. Tries not to let himself get _reattached._ Thankfully the moment is over as soon as it starts; Geralt pulls his hands away and turns, taking five long strides back over to the bed where he’d thrown those papers earlier.

Jaskier is left blinking, his hands still in the air from where he’d been holding onto Geralt’s sleeves. He feels suddenly very silly and empty, as he watches Geralt continue on about his business like Jaskier hadn’t just tried to kill a man. Like he hadn’t just had a meltdown. 

Talk about an emotional whirlwind. 

Geralt stuffs a few papers into his back pocket, the noise of the paper wrinkling unpleasant against Jaskier’s ears until he shifts and brushes his hand against -- 

“Oh, shit.” He hisses, lifting his shirt up to look at his wound. His bandage had fallen out earlier when he’d gone to hit the King, leaving his wound uncovered.

Though, as he looks at it, it doesn’t look like it’s bleeding anymore. In fact, it doesn’t look all that bad at all. There’s a noticeable puncture wound, but it’s no larger than the tip of a quill. He frowns and pokes at it.

“Stop that,” Geralt scolds from across the room and Jaskier startles, his hand pulling up away from his wound and behind his back like he could hide what he’d been doing. “You’ll make it bleed again.” 

“Ah, right. My bad.” He coughs, his eyes still stuck on the simply minuscule wound. “Ehm, question though. Why did it bleed so much? It’s such a tiny wound?” 

Geralt shrugs and dusts his hands off, coming back around to stand in front of the King, his gaze flitting about the room, anywhere but on Jaskier. “Stomach wounds tend to bleed a lot.”

“Are you sure you’re not just lying to spare my feelings?” Jaskier asks before he can stop himself, and he grunts as soon as the word leaves his mouth, hand raising to press firmly against his eyes. “No, sorry, I forgot. Not friends. You wouldn’t do that. Let’s just -- er, well let’s figure out what's going on with all this. I know you don’t exactly want me as a travel companion right now but I’ve sort of got a personal investment in it now. I’d look into it even if you weren’t here. Well, you know, if I managed to not get killed, which I guess, thank you, for, by the way.” 

He’s rambling, Jaskier knows he is, but he’s not sure what else to do. He’d always talked too much, been unable to _stop_ talking even when his life depended on it in the past. He was pretty sure there was something actually wrong with him, sometimes, that made him physically incapable of keeping his damned mouth shut for more than three minutes. Geralt though, manages to shut him up for a moment by tossing him something without any warning.

Jaskier nearly drops it, letting out a startled yelp as he fumbles to catch it in his hands. When he’s no longer at risk of dropping it he takes a good look at it.

It’s a small brown pouch, with a cinched drawstring at the top keeping it closed. Jaskier frowns and pulls it open, only to be met with glittering pieces of gold coin filling the bag to the brim. His brows draw to his hairline. 

“Where’d you get this?” He looks up at Geralt quizzically. Geralt, who doesn’t even bother looking at Jaskier, just pulls his pants up -- up close Jaskier can see they don’t really fit him properly, too loose around the waist and too tight around his… erm… _ass_ ets. Jaskier averts his gaze and sucks in a breath. 

“Was in the King’s drawer.” Geralt tells him plainly, and Jaskier scowls and makes a disgusted noise, holding the bag away from himself like it stunk.

It might as well be. He’d already settled himself to the reality that he wasn’t getting paid, considering he’d only been invited to be killed. But now that he knows the extent of what the King had done he can’t bear the thought of taking his money. 

“I don’t want this, it’s dirty money.” Jaskier growls, his tongue poking out of his mouth to emphasize his point. 

“Still money. That you earned.” Geralt makes a move for the door without even _waiting_ to finish talking to Jaskier because he is _rude_ and _boorish_ and -- _and_ he’s pulling one of the doors open.

Jaskier scrambles to follow after him with an aborted noise, flailing a bit as he jerks himself into motion. He grabs his lute from where it sits next to the door, slinging it onto his back, wincing as the motion pulls at his wound painfully. Geralt seems to be finished with the conversation, stepping out of the room without further words or even grunts to express some feeling he doesn’t want to speak but deems worthy for a grunt. 

Jaskier doesn’t hesitate as he leaves the coin pouch on the table next to the door before following Geralt out. Like he'd said -- he's not like Geralt. He can't take dirty money, and he can't casually accept killing a man. Nor can he get used to it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where Jaskier gets an encore.

“Oh,” Jaskier gasps as a realization suddenly dawns on him with his next step forward. “The King was only killing men, that’s why the guests tonight didn’t include women.” 

“What would I do without your vast intelligence,” Geralt mutters, his voice just loud enough that Jaskier can hear him, and he even manages to spot the subtle eye roll Geralt makes as he speaks. Geralt probably hadn’t intended for Jaskier to hear it, so he doesn’t bother responding to it despite the clever quip that pops into his head at Geralt’s words.

They’re walking at what Jaskier would call a stealthy jaunt, their sides hugging the wall as they maneuver down the seemingly endless maze of hallways. Geralt is navigating through them with purpose, appearing to understand where he’s going, his directions choices confident and sure; a drastic difference from how Jaskier still barely can tell his back from his forwards. 

All of the halls look the same, and so far the only difference Jaskier has managed to actually spot was one little table with a goblet on it next to someone’s door. 

Though, he can’t tell if it’s intended to be decorative or functional. Maybe it was just someone’s discarded dirty dishes. It -- it doesn’t really  _ matter,  _ and Jaskier isn’t entirely sure why he’s thinking about it so hard. He’s not really sure where they’re heading anyway, having just blindly followed Geralt again when he began to walk away. 

It was something of a habit he’d grown into before their fight, and he’s just fallen back into it the second he’d had the chance to. Jaskier should… really stop doing that. One of these days he was going to get himself killed. Hah. Funny. 

Jaskier is trying to match his pace with Geralt’s, trying to step where he steps and be careful so his heels don’t click against the hard floor. He’s not doing  _ awfully  _ at it, but occasionally there's the clink of his heel tapping the marble beneath them. 

He has no idea how Geralt manages to keep his footfall as light as he does; Geralt’s shoes are heeled like Jaskier’s own -- though, to be fair, they are working boots rather than dress ones -- and proportionally it should be harder for a man of Geralt’s stature to sneak around. But Jaskier can hardly even hear him breathe or the sound of his clothes jostling with each step he takes. 

Well that’s a lie -- Jaskier  _ does  _ know how Geralt manages to do it. He’s a well trained, skilled Witcher who’s probably had more than one lifetime under his belt to master the art of stealthily walking around on marble floors. This is Jaskier’s first time trying to do it with heels on. It’s unfair, really.

They continue on for what feels like an hour, taking turns left and right through the endless halls. Jaskier has no way of knowing if they’re nearing their destination or not, and all he can do is trust that Geralt knows what he’s doing, and that his own legs aren’t going to give out before they get there. 

His feet are starting to become sore, his shoes made to look far prettier than they are comfortable. One of these days Jaskier is going to be smart and bring a pair of walking boots along with him instead of just assuming he won’t need them. It always seems like when he least expects it is when he needs the damn things the most. 

Jaskier frowns. No, he won’t bring them -- Jaskier is pretty sure this particular instance wasn’t intended on either of their parts, (he  _ knows  _ it wasn’t on his end) and he doubts it’s going to become a particularly common occurrence. With Geralt avoiding him and all. So, it’s not much of a good sense to carry around boots Jaskier isn’t going to need. Without Geralt around anyway he doubts he’s going to need to do much walking anyway, outside of travel, and then he always wears his walking boots. 

Geralt takes a sharp turn left, pulling Jaskier out of his musings and he quickly follows like he has so far. This time when they pull into the new hallway Jaskier is met with another, hauntingly familiar dead end that pulls him to a stop in his tracks. 

For a moment his heart flies into his throat and he thinks Geralt has looped them back around to where he’d been before, to where Jaskier had been attacked. It’s not reasonable, and if he takes a moment to think about it he’d know it wasn’t true. But it’s not rationality that makes him realize they’re not in the same place.

Of all things it ends up being the fact that the  _ doors  _ look different that jolts the realization into Jaskier, and he lets his breath out shakily as it hits him. This isn’t the same hallway as before. There’s no outside door this time. 

In fact, there's no door on the back wall of the hallway at all. Instead there stands a lone door to the left wall, with a small, delicate looking red rug laid on the floor before it. This hall is lit far brighter as well, the five torches hung on the old stone walls at full brightness, the color dancing fascinating against the brickwork. 

It’s almost beautiful, in a haunting way -- like something out of a gothic story Jaskier might have read or sung about in the past. Geralt pushes past Jaskier with a grunt, heedless to his sudden hesitance or his shift in mood, and jerks the wooden door Jaskier’s been ogling without any finesse. This time, instead of holding the door open for Jaskier. 

Without even glancing behind himself to see if Jaskier is following, Geralt steps inside and lets the door slam shut behind him with a thud. Jaskier jumps and shifts backwards, his hands forming a knot in front of himself. Wringing his hands together, his eyes flit between where Geralt has disappeared to and where they came from. It reminds him of a scared rabbit, the way he’s standing jittery in the hall.

“Fuck,” Jaskier hisses as he jerkily takes a step forwards, finally following Geralt into the room with an efficiency he’s unfamiliar with. The second he steps in he’s assaulted with the overwhelming scent of old leather and cloth, the kind of musty linen smell you’d get if you beat a dusty sheet and inhaled a deep lung-full of it. 

There’s two torches mounted to each wall of the room, which sits no larger than a room you’d get for two silver at a shady looking inn. It’s filled to the gills with boxes and shelves, and from the little Jaskier can see on them they’re mostly stocked with fabrics and leathers, a few pillows stashed up high on the shelving. 

Before Jaskier has even shut the door, Geralt makes a beeline for the far back of the room and he pops open a box effortlessly, like his hands were crowbars. Jaskier lets out a startled  _ ‘ack’ _ and raises a hand, jerkily taking a step forwards. 

A protest is on the tip of his tongue -- the idea that Geralt is just pulling apart this castle without any real reason not sitting particularly well with him; somehow he's holding reservations despite the fact that the residing King had tried to kill him. His priorities might not be the best aligned at the moment. Either way, before he manages to voice his concerns, Geralt reaches into the box and drags a familiar bag out of it. He’s evidently stashed his equipment here before he’d even bothered to join the banquet -- and if that isn’t just textbook Geralt, Jaskier doesn’t know  _ what  _ is. 

Spinning, he drops it heavily onto one of the still closed boxes behind him, his eyes fixed to it and mouth shut in a thin line; Geralt either ignoring Jaskier's outburst or he hadn't noticed, and either way Jaskier is glad it's not addressed. He lets out a small noise and wipes his hand against his pants, frowning.

Of course Geralt would have hidden his bag somewhere in the castle -- he probably knew far in advance that the King was killing people, and he’d likely expected to run into trouble. It would explain why he had a bandage in his pocket, and why he was so willingly putting up with the King’s incessant conversation during the banquet. Which… Jaskier had initially seen it as a strike against Geralt, the way Jaskier could see him fighting off the urge to roll his eyes and leave. 

But now he only sees it as one for the King, and some part of Jaskier worries that the King had been trying to size Geralt up. See if he was a good candidate for blood-bathing like Jaskier. He knows that Geralt wouldn't have been killed, but still, the implication that it had been an  _ option  _ to the King upsets him in a way that's not  _ un _ familiar. 

He's grown used to the warm, panic-like feeling that swells in his gut at the thought of Geralt being injured. Jaskier somehow managed to loathe the King more at the realization; almost brought to laughter from how his stance on the man had taken a one-eighty, from casual friendliness to loathing in only a few hours time.

Geralt hauls himself up onto the same box he’d set his bag on with a grunt, dusting his hands clean of the fine grit that’s starting to cover them from messing with the dust-covered boxes. Jaskier eyes him, pulling out of his own thoughts. He waits for an explanation of what they're doing, why they're in this storeroom, but it never comes. 

Geralt just sits, silent and stoic, uninterested in talking; Jaskier doesn't even know if the thought to explain himself crosses Geralt's mind. After so many years alone maybe he just is used to being silent. Jaskier decides to give him the benefit of the doubt and clears his throat to try and get his attention, but Geralt is stubbornly focused on picking at his fingernails. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. It's a wonder he ever managed to get so enthralled with Geralt as he is -- though his looks could account for a lot of it. “Are we pitching camp?” He questions, carefully making his voice just the right side of frustrated to get his impatience across, but not be too rude.

His hands find purchase on his hips as he shoots Geralt a look, his brow cocked and mouth set into a thin line. Geralt doesn’t bother looking back at him, flicking a piece of dirt onto the floor impassively.

“I need to find the Knight.” Geralt informs him like it’s just so  _ clear  _ what he’s doing. Like any of the situation has been made clear by taking Jaskier to this store room, or letting him sit in on Geralt’s make-shift interrogation of the King. Jaskier hisses and throws a hand in the air, his palm making a sharp noise as it collides with his thigh as it comes back down.

“Alright, how do we do that if we’re not, uhm, actually  _ looking  _ for this guy?” Jaskier complains loudly. Each breath he takes is filled with soot and dirt, and it’s really quite unpleasant to keep breathing in the stale air. Jaskier doesn’t want to stay in this room for longer than absolutely necessary, and Geralt taking his time with every answer he gives is really  _ not  _ helping things. 

“The Knights are at the party,” Geralt explains. He finally deems it necessary to look up from his hands, and his expression is bored. “They are going to stay there until it’s over, surrounded by a bunch of unruly, drunk men. I can’t start anything around them if they’re all together, and we can’t return to the party to watch him because  _ you’re _ covered in blood.” 

Jaskier looks down at himself, only just now realizing that he is, in fact, covered in blood. There’s still the dark stain on his shirt at his stomach from his stabbing, along with the King’s blood coating his hands. Splatter patterns shoot up the rest of his shirt and sleeves, evidence clear as day of what he's done. 

And when he winces Jaskier can feel the blood, dried and caked on his face pull at his skin. Jaskier feels like he’s going to vomit. Again.

With jittery hands Jaskier scrapes at his hands, scratching them, trying to peel the blood off. 

“So we have to wait for them to finish their banquet, and this is the only room I can hear them from without putting us at risk of detection.” Geralt leans back until he’s resting against the wall behind him, tucking his arms under his head.

When he doesn’t say anything else Jaskier raises his eyes from his ruddy hands, catching the way Geralt has let his own slip closed and his face soften into a restful expression; he looks almost asleep, despite the fact that Jaskier knows good and well that he’s not. 

He's not sure how Geralt can be so casual; Jaskier knows, somewhere, the part of his brain that isn't in panic mode, that Geralt is just like this. He's been doing these kinds of jobs for years and years, has seen more blood than a butcher. And yet Jaskier still can't see  _ how.  _ How he's okay with what happened. How he's okay with Jaskier almost killing a man. How he's okay with seeing him looking like --

Jaskier scratches his hands again, trying to pick the dried blood off his hands like he would chipping paint. He desperately needs a bath -- needs to get this off of him, make himself  _ clean  _ again. The blood is like a glaring  _ red  _ flag, a sign post saying,  _ 'Murderer Here'  _ that Jaskier is at the end of. 

He didn't have any change of clothes on him, left those in his inn -- another thing he'd splurged on after getting hired. Jaskier really needs to learn not to count his ducks before they hatch. 

He's pulled out of his thoughts as a small, white cloth encompasses his vision; instinctively he grabs it, catching it out of the air. Blinking, Jaskier looks up, question on the tip of his tongue. But Geralt isn't saying anything. He's still sitting where he was, eyes closed. In Jaskiers hands, now, though, lies a small handkerchief. It's worn and stained from use, but it'll probably get the blood off his easier -- and without all the scratching his skin off. 

It takes him probably half the time it would to clean his hands and face off as it would have if he'd kept scratching at it. He's not perfectly clean -- there's still spots, there's still the stuff on his shirt. But at least he can't  _ feel  _ the crusty blood when he moves. He's grateful Geralt had given him the handkerchief.

Letting his breath out in a puff, Jaskier reaches up and scratches the back of his head. 

Aside from their fight before, Jaskier is pretty sure this is the most Geralt has spoken to him -- ever. It’s kind of… sad, if he thinks about it. That they've only spoken as much as they have because Geralt is yelling at him, or chastising him, or just  _ upset  _ at Jaskier. But he  _ doesn’t _ think about it because he’s not an idiot. He pulls his lute off his back once more and goes to the opposite side of the room -- as far as he can get from Geralt without leaving -- laying it gently against two of the boxes to keep it stable. 

He shuffles as quietly as he can to the box beside where he's rested his lute, putting his hands flat against the box. Hoisting himself up with a grunt, Jaskier pulls up onto it until his knees both rest against the lid, face to the wall. Jaskier pauses for a moment and jumps a little, gauging whether the box is stable enough to take his weight. When it doesn’t immediately brake beneath him, he takes that as a good enough sign and he crawls forwards, spinning himself until he’s got his legs tucked under himself, his back pressed against the wall mirroring Geralt. 

They stay like that for a long time, neither of them trying to break the silence with words. Even if he did try and speak, Jaskier isn't sure what he’d say. His mind is still reeling from everything that had happened already, and he's not sure if he'd start screaming or crying if he tried to hold a conversation with Geralt. 

Up until now everything he'd said had been… well, reactionary. Jaskier was just responding to what was going on, what was being said. But now talking was up to him and him alone, Geralt having the conversation skills of a mossy rock, and though Jaskier normally fills uncomfortable silences like these with idle chatter or song he can't manage to bring himself to speak. 

So he tries to distract himself by tapping out notes on his thigh, counting the cracks in the walls, picking at loose threads on his shirt, until the silence strangles him and Jaskier breaks. He reaches beside himself and pulls his lute into his lap, taking in the pleasant, familiar weight in his hands. With a sigh Jaskier plucks one of the strings, considers playing a song. He doesn't get that far, though -- Geralt’s growling, low in his throat and threatening pulling Jaskier's attention away from his lute. 

He's shaking his head in warning, gaze stern and unbreaking where he holds it on Jaskier. He doesn’t try to play again after that, setting his lute back down beside him as he resigns himself to relying on his wonderful imagination to keep him entertained. Which, to be  _ fair. _ Is probably not the best idea when he’s sitting in the same room as Geralt, because every thought Jaskier has somehow loops back around to him. Music - Geralt. Stuffy room - uncomfortable - Geralt. 

The cost of new shoes - getting paid - the money in his pocket - Geralt. Then  _ that  _ loops around to the fact that Geralt hates him now, and Jaskier doubts anything is going to change tonight to fix this.  _ Gods,  _ he doubts anything will fix this. And Jaskier  _ wants  _ to fix it -- if he could apologize and everything would just be okay he  _ would,  _ in a heartbeat. But Jaskier has already come to the conclusion, from countless sleepless, booze filled nights, that he isn't the one to apologize. 

He remembers promising a nice young lady he'd spent a  _ very  _ drunken night with that he wouldn't, and despite only knowing her for a day he is trying to keep himself to that promise. She’d seemed so reasonable, when she’d explained to Jaskier it wasn’t his fault, that Geralt had been oh-so cruel to him; even as Jaskier had weeped into his pillow about how it was his fault that he hadn’t just kept his mouth shut. So he can't apologize, and Geralt isn't going to. 

Jaskier's eyes land on his still blood stained hands and he sucks in a sharp breath at the sight. The King had almost murdered him, and Jaskier would have died if Geralt hadn't been there. So many times Geralt has saved him, intentionally or otherwise, and never before had Jaskier felt…  _ bad  _ about it. 

He'd been grateful before, happy that Geralt cared enough to save him. But now all he Jaskier can think of is the fact that he couldn't have saved  _ himself.  _ That he’s just a burden. Jaskier is starting to become aware of how utterly useless he is without him. 

He had known that something wasn’t right with the King, and despite that he’d followed him anyway. Had walked right into a trap he could see based on blind faith and the urge to get paid. When a knife had been pulled and pressed to his stomach Jaskier hadn’t done more than scream his head off.

Didn’t try and fight, didn’t kick the King’s knees or bash their foreheads together. He just…  _ stood  _ there and took it, waiting for death to take him. If Geralt hadn’t been there Jaskier is certain the King would be bathing in his blood as he speaks, and no one would have even known that Jaskier had been killed. 

Jaskier purses his lips and glances up across the room to Geralt, who’s got his eyes closed and looks like he could be asleep again. He’s not -- Jaskier knows better than that, but he looks like he could be. His breathing is even and steady, a stark contrast to Jaskier’s still frantic and stuttering breathing. 

He hasn’t been able to fully calm himself, still on edge and hyper aware of everything around him. His skin feels like it’s crawling, and the remaining blood on his hands burns. Jaskier could very likely work himself into a panic if he doesn’t keep a close guard on his mind, and he can feel the fear creeping in still. Yet another sign of how useless he is alone.

"You're staring," Geralt mutters, startling Jaskier so bad he almost falls off the box he's perched on. He doesn't, gripping the edge of it for purchase as he regains his balance.

"Sorry." Jaskier apologizes. He could try and deny it but he doesn't see the point. Geralt's senses are sharp enough he doubts he could get away with lying. He half suspects Geralt could probably smell his lie or hear it or -- or something. Jaskier doesn’t exactly have an encyclopedia on Witcher abilities so he more or less just guesses on things Geralt doesn’t outrightly tell him. So… basically everything. 

Geralt shifts, straightening the line of his back with a grunt as he drops his arms down to his sides; the look he levels Jaskier with is far too knowing for his comfort. He has to avert his gaze, going over the detail and damage of his boots. 

He hasn’t been looking at them long before there’s another grunt and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor -- Jaskier raises his eyes to find Geralt standing again. He lifts the bottom of his shirt and, before Jaskier can give himself a moment to pretend to be scandalized, pulls out a small dagger. 

“Come here,” Geralt commands smoothly, and Jaskier will hate himself later for the speed at which he jumps off the box and trots over to him, like a trained dog. When he gets close enough Geralt extends his hand and offers Jaskier the dagger, handle first.

It’s a small little thing, and about as ugly to match. It’s worn, the wooden handle littered with cuts and dents and chips where Jaskier can see the lighter, unstained wood beneath. The blade itself is chipped and a darkened, old color of steel. There's stains on it, some kind of blood but from what Jaskier isn't sure. Knowing Geralt it's just as likely to be a rabbit as it is to be some monster. 

The blade has been well loved, that’s for sure. A stark contrast between the King’s overly ornate hunting knife that, beside what Jaskier already knows it was used for, looks like it hadn't seen much use. Jaskier shivers at the memory and reaches out, taking the blade without any further hesitation. 

He holds it gently, his fingers wrapping around it like he would hold a kitchen knife. Jaskier is pretty sure he’s not doing it right, but he’s never had a need for weapons or training in them, so he can’t really be blamed if it makes him look like a fool. With a curious gaze Jaskier looks up at Geralt, shrugging a little. 

“What’s this for?” He nods to the blade in his hand, his empty hand resting against his hip lazily. Geralt hums and steps forwards, close,  _ too close, gods.  _ He rests his  _ very  _ large hand beneath Jaskier’s outstretched one, lifting and supporting him until he grips the blade in what Jaskier can only assume is the proper way to hold such a weapon. 

“You could have been killed,” He explains matter-of-factly, and Jaskier frowns. He knows Geralt can’t read his mind. Well, he’s pretty sure he can’t, with some of the rude and…  _ unseemly  _ things he’s thought about the other man before. But he’d obviously picked up on Jaskier’s discomfort, unfortunately landing dead on his worries. 

Jaskier huffs, put-upon, “Gee, thanks.” 

“If I hadn't been there,” Geralt continues, ignoring Jaskier. “You would have died. You need to learn how to defend yourself when I’m not around to save you.” 

Jaskier’s face flushes, but it’s not out of embarrassment. He calms himself with a heavy breath, takes a moment before he says something stupid. Geralt is just trying to look out for him. Jaskier shouldn’t be upset about that -- he should be elated that Geralt is giving him any emotion other than annoyance and anger. 

Hopeful that this might be a way to make up between the two of them. Mend bridges. But he can't help the swell of anger that burns through him at his words. Jaskier knows he's useless without Geralt. But it stings all the more stronger when  _ Geralt  _ knows it, too.

“I have been doing fine on my own.” Jaskier tells him slowly, unsure if he’s trying to convince Geralt or himself. 

Because he had been doing fine, hadn’t he?  _ Before  _ he met Geralt and  _ after  _ their fight, it’s true either way. Well. For the most part. Sure he hadn’t had as beautiful clothes or as frequent food on his table, but he’d been  _ alive  _ and relatively happy. 

He hadn’t even  _ needed  _ to know how to use a weapon before Geralt, so really, without him around Jaskier would be doing perfectly fine. Everything else isn't important, because he was surviving on his own. It shouldn't matter if Geralt being in his life had given him a sense of purpose, because he'd been getting by without him.

Right?

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, in the same warning tone he uses to chastise Roach. It’s humiliating. “You were living off of scraps people threw at you in anger.”

“Hey--” Jaskier shifts his weight, frowning as he tries to pull back from Geralt. Geralt just steps back into his space the second he leaves it and cuts him off before he can finish his protest. 

“You treat your own life like it’s just another thing of yours to use and replace, but you can’t replace this, Jaskier. If you die that’s it.” Geralt uses the grip he has on Jaskier’s hand to push the dagger closer to him, like he’s trying to urge him to do something. What it is though, Jaskier doesn’t know. “You need to take better care of yourself, and that starts with learning to fight.” 

Jaskier scoffs, mouth opening on another protest but once more he’s cut off. This time as Geralt turns without waiting for his answer, stepping over to where he’s been sitting. He fishes around in his bag for a moment and draws another dagger out of it.  _ So that’s it then?  _ Geralt has decided that Jaskier is going to learn this, that he’s going to do what he’s told without any say so from his end. 

Jaskier had almost been killed and Geralt had  _ saved  _ him, so clearly he owes him a debt now, too, right? He just has to follow Geralt’s orders to the t, his own feelings be damned. Maybe he should offer Geralt his first born too. Geralt just shows up after  _ months,  _ saves him and suddenly expects Jaskier to just… do as he commands, because he commands it? 

Sure Jaskier  _ wants  _ to do things for Geralt, but not because he's  _ told to.  _ Because he thought they were friends, and he'd taken what he could get, because maybe it felt like an apology on his end for constantly pining after someone who doesn't even want him around as a  _ friend.  _

Like if Jaskier did what he was told enough, he'd be forgiven by the cosmic forces above. Or Geralt would be his friend. But it hadn't worked, and Geralt hates him, and he's expecting Jaskier to do as he says without even  _ trying  _ to make up for what he'd said. Jaskier was annoying, sure, and caused problems sometimes but Geralt had been  _ awful  _ and it was unacceptable to say he'd caused all Geralt's problems. 

At least, that's what the woman had told him before. And maybe Jaskier is crazy for taking her advice when he barely knows her, can't even remember her name, but she'd seemed to know what she was talking about and it felt better to be angry at Geralt than hating himself for doing things inadvertently. Geralt is just once again taking charge of Jaskier's life, but this time it's without the facade of being  _ friends.  _ Because Jaskier just likes shoveling _ shit  _ on him, obviously, so Geralt just assumed it's okay to say the things that he is. 

_ What a pompous, arrogant, overzealous--  _

“I’ll show you how to hold it properly first,” Geralt tells him, and. Jaskier can’t  _ take  _ it anymore. 

He throws the dagger to the floor with an audible  _ clink _ , the metal scraping against the tiles as it skitters to a stop behind Geralt’s boots. 

Geralt turns to look at him at the noise, mouth drawing up on question or chastisement, Jaskier isn't sure which. It doesn’t matter, either way he doesn't give him a chance to speak, to convince Jaskier that he's the one in the wrong.

"God damn you, Geralt!" Jaskier screams, voice aching with the volume of it. 

It’s probably the loudest he’s ever been when speaking to Geralt, when not afraid for his life and screaming for his help. Help he  _ doesn’t need,  _ help he  _ wouldn’t  _ need if he’d never met the damn man in the first place!

"You cannot just waltz back into my life and begin to boss me around, and make me do things for you without even so much as a passing,  _ 'by the way I'm sorry'! _ I do not need you telling me what I should or shouldn't be doing with my life, or how I should protect it. I deserve at least to be shown the same respect you show  _ complete  _ strangers, and at most with the respect of someone you perhaps should be kinder to after the things that have been said.” Jaskier inhales sharply, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he straightens into a taut line. “So you can keep your advice, your stupid defense lessons,  _ and  _ your silly knife! If you wanted to meddle with my livelihood then you shouldn't have taken your anger out on me!"

_ "Your  _ livelihood?" Spits Geralt, spinning around to face him fully. His eyes are wild as he speaks, teeth flashing bright and deadly behind his lips, and Jaskier is again reminded why Geralt is the White Wolf. "I'm not the one making up lies about other people to make a quick buck! I'm not the one inserting themselves into other people's work! I'm not the one fudging truths to make himself look  _ better  _ when--"

And just as they’d started, they stop -- Geralt swallows his words, the entire line of his body freezing as he shifts, looking at the door behind Jaskier with a new alertness. Jaskier shifts and looks behind himself, to the door, and strains to hear. 

But all he can make out are the sounds of Geralt and he’s breathing, heavy on anger, and the occasional crackle from the lit torches. Jaskier frowns --  _ if this is just some silly excuse to get him out of this conversation, then Geralt’s got another thing coming, so help him---- _

“What are you  _ doing--”  _ Jaskier grits out as he turns back to face Geralt, but for what must be the hundredth time that night he’s cut off; Geralt is suddenly right there in his space when he turns, and his hand comes to press heavy against Jaskier’s mouth. 

Even Jaskier’s startled  _ ‘mmph’  _ is muffled into silence against Geralt’s hand, and for a moment he’s left frantically flailing his arms around, unsure what to do with himself. Finally his hands collide with Geralt, one clinging to his notably  _ very  _ soft shirt, the other wrapping around Geralt’s elbow. 

Geralt is still looking intently at the door, his gaze unbroken despite Jaskier panicking. The light catches remarkably well on Geralt’s eyes, and casts him in a flattering light. Even through the anger still digging into him, Jaskier can’t help the heavy breath he lets out through his nose at the sight of him. Jaskier is so used to these moments -- times when something dramatic happens, or dangerous, and he’s left staring at Geralt as he tries to figure out something important in his head. 

Jaskier can do nothing but stare at him, unable to help, and he always basked in those moments. They tended to be the only moments he got to  _ look.  _ It was a little sad that Jaskier, infamous for his relationships, was so unable to endear himself to Geralt that he had to steal little moments like these in the midst of peril just to keep his longing at bay long enough to part ways.

Finally Geralt slips his hand away from Jaskier’s mouth, leaning down so he can whisper into -- well, next to -- his ear. “The banquet is over, the Knights and guests are disbanding. Now is our chance.” 

_ Our _ chance. Even though they're still fighting, and Geralt doesn't want to apologise, he's still counting it as  _ their _ chance. Jaskier knows that shouldn't mean anything to him, but can't help as his stomach fills with butterflies. Geralt spins and leaves him there, walking back to his belongings. 

He quickly collects his things, practiced hands tucking everything important or incriminating away from prying eyes. Jaskier is still standing there with his hands in the air like a fool by the time Geralt has finished packing up, blinking dumbly at Geralt’s back. He takes three, four strides and skirts around Jaskier, careful not to touch him this time, making it to and out the door without so much as a warning, a goodbye, or a  _ ‘lets go’.  _

_ “Shite,”  _ Jaskier hisses, scrambling over to where he’d left his stuff. 

As quick as he can Jaskier secures his lute on his back, careful not to knock it against the wall as he slings it over his shoulder. With a huff Jaskier pushes his hair back from his face, taking a step towards the door. 

His shoes squeak as he pulls himself to a stop, hand hovering over the doorknob. Before he can stop himself, Jaskier turns back around and grabs the dagger he’d discarded, despite his instincts, and frankly his pettiness, telling him otherwise. 

He pockets it -- for safekeeping or to return it to Geralt, Jaskier hasn't decided yet.


End file.
